THE NORTH STREET MOTHER.

Samoa Times and South Sea Gazette, Issue 46, 17 August 1878, Page 4

THE NORTH STREET MOTHER.

BY HKZEKIAH BI'TTEKWOKTH. '"That is my boy, my boy ; he rote f>r prayers —he—and I, his poor old mother, drunk ; drunk, Chaplain ; thut'e what 1 be, and " There was a sharp ring of the bell at the chapel desk. " That was pay boy, Chaplin; he rose for prayers —he " A polieemau stepped from the chupcl<ioor, and walked with a heavy step and determined look towards the place where the woman wu standing. Sho glanced at Mm fiercely ; then her reason seemed going, and she gave a mocking laugh—- •' Ila ! ha ! ha .'" "To the Island I will go. To the Island I will go, To the Island I will go '." The Island is a house of reformation ill Boston Harbour. The strange wild seemed to fade from the woman's eyes, and her reason to return again.

" L'haplin"— "To the Island I fear you will havo to go," said the blue-coated policeman, as he firmly laid his hand on the woman's shoulder.

" Chaplin, do not let him take me. I have prayed to-night, too. I've got an experience' I would like to tell—and—that was my boy—he rose for pray era." " Let the woman speak briefly—the Lord may have touched her heart. She may have something to say." The policeman stepped back to the rrowd standing at the end of the room. The chaplain sat down. A milder look ulmost transfigured the face of the woman.

" God bless ye !" And little in front of her, a ragged, un-cared-for boy was sobbing. He evidently had not been aware of his mother's presence in the room until she had spoken. Ho had risen for prayers, in response to •'i sympathetic appeal to the congregation by the chaplain. The titter and restlessness that the ■woman's wild exclamations had caused subsided. There was a silence full of .suppressed pity and curiosity in the midst of which the mother's ear caught thesound -of sobbing—listened intently, and recognized tha cry. She darted forward. " Billy!" The boy in rags recoiled from her. "0, mother, why did you come her ?" " Billy, my baby, my youngest—ashamed of your poor old mother, are ye!—well, it is good cause ye have to be ashamed—l care for nothing more, Surely my own blood is ashamed of me.

" Chaplain, I'm going out into the dark. It is not much longer I will trouble y >u Billy—l'm going out into the dark. Ye'll know, perhaps, what that means some day. I'm going out to the dark. " I was not always the poor, crazed old woman ye see me now. I was born among the New-Hampshire hills. Oh, what sunsets I used to see there, when I was an innocent child, as innocent as Billy there—he rose for prayers. I used to dream of heaven then, and think I would go there some day ; but now my own blood is ashamed of me, and I'm goi:ig out into the dark, Chaplin—out into the dark.

" I had a religious mother—she prayed for me when dying; her grave is way up among the hills. And sister Mary—she <lied young—l used to sleep in her arms, poor girl; what would she say if she had lived to see me now ? —her grave is away up among the hills. " You do not pity me, Chaplain. Ah, bat you do not know. lam so tempted, Chaplain, so tempted. You tell about your temptations—temptations ? Yo don't know what it means. 1 have resjlved to reform hut I can't—l have no piwer to help myself. I cannot pass a gin-shop, Chaplin if you would give me all Boston, I could not do it. I have resolved and resolved for Billy's sake, but 'tis no use, and my mind is made up, and I'm going out into the dark. " If there was only some power outside of myself to save me, then I might have some hope, but there is none in this world nor any other, and my day is over. I am bound in my own chains and into that outer darkness that the Scripture tells about lam going—it is dark, all dark for me; Billy, let me kiss ye once more, then, I'll go out into the dark." The laughter had all gone now from the motely assembly ; tears stood in many eyes, and there was a hush. She clasped her boy to her ragged bosom and kissed him ; then Bhe hurried towards the door. She stopped on the threshold and glanced back into the warm room, saying, " There was my boy—ho rose for prayers." She darted through the door—the usher tried to detain her, but he was too slow. She had gono out into the dark.

The chaplain beckoned to the policeman and whispered to him, and ho too left the room. ■

Then there was music and 6inging—- " Resoue the perishing caro for the dying/' —The Charles River bridge, that connects Boston and Cambridge, is a crowded throughfare expressionless enough by day, but night changes the scene. The long rows of street-lights shimmer upon tho wator, and two silent cities with illuminod hills seems to rise at oithor end. The tide ebbs and flows Iroiflfd the wooden piers, and got! sobbi ig through them to the sea. The tide of humanity, too, flows and fellows over the bridge inooewntly, and night gives to the long procession en almost unnatural picturesqucness and gloom.

Cambridge street jail stands near the , water like the old-time castle ; the ) Charles street clock from its tower strikes ' the hours.

The crowds fanny over the bridge as the stars come out, and hang low over the dark minor of the waters like the lamps of God. The silver bow of the . moon is lifted above the eastern hills, ' add is mirrored in the vrero. On, on, ever go the footsteps, vanishing into the night—vanishing, vanishing, vanishing. Poets have pictuted the poptilus solitude of a city bridge at night, and drawn from such scenes allegories of human life.

It was on this bridge, in the summer of 1.548, that the poet Longfellow, then at the beginning of his fame, received the impressions that led him to write the poem, a part of which has since became a favorite song, entitled "The Bridge:" "I stood oa the Bridge at midnight, And the clocks were striking tiie hour, .And tin' mnon rose over the city, Behind the dark church-tower." The north street Mkssion Chapel stands near the great wharves ; the streets from North street open into blue v#tas spired with masts, and are fresh with the salt sea air. But the half-crazed woman did not hurry towards these wharves when she went out into the dark. She wished to think. Through Richmond street up Hanover, to the heart of the palpitating city, Cambridge street with a blaze of light opened before her almost shoeless feet.

Slie hurried down, and saw tlio long bridge with its litdits crossing (he arm of the sea.

She looked up to the prison clock : it marked the hour cf nine in the thin moonlight; she crept through a private way with a wail, and came to the foot of the bridge. The tide was low. Under the bridge it was dark. She stepped upon a block of stone, at the loot of a wooden pier, and there in the darkness and solitude she sat ('own.

She heard the footsteps above her as the procession moved on :.happy footsteps and light laughter ; silent footsteps aud perhaps lonely hearts. She clasped her hands and said, " The tide will rise soon, and then I will go out into the dark." The tide rose slowly, sobbing among the piers. The waters reached her feet, but she sat dumb, impatient only that the tide rose so slowly. The clock struck ten. " Billy, he rose for prayers '''

Was there then some power in prayer ? Was there enough power in prayer to save her, whose own will-power was gone! " Tis no use for me to pray for myself, I will pray for Billy ;he rose for prayers." She turned her face up to the darkness and prayed for her boy. As she prayed her heart grew tender, and the memory of the last kiss brought teal's to her eyes. Her heart seemed to begin to grow young again ; old feelings such as she had known inhergirlhood in her simple country home began to return. The tide was rising. " I would like to pray for myself. But I have done that before. It has done no good for me in this world; it will do me no good for the next. I am so tempted, so tempted, and my day is over now :it is night for me, night forever. I am going out into the dark." The tide rose. She hardly felt the cold waters around her, so intense was the struggle within. The footsteps on the bridge became less frequent. At last there was an almost dead silence, save now and then the rumblo of a passing.car. Then a quick, heavy step passed over her, followed by a light, short footfall, as of a child. Both seemed to stop.

" I have traced her to here." There was an excited, despairing sob, then a voice answered :

" She was a good woman when sober—she was all discouraged. Oh, how Ido wish I could find my mother !" The woman shouted up from the waters,

" Billy's ? The voice was Billy's ?" The ell'eots of liquor were all gone now, and a mother's yearning and tenderness came back. " I would love to li ,- e for Billy's sake. He rose for prayers." There was a splash in the rising water ; in a few minutes the mother in her wet garments was on the bridge. There were revival moetings in the Chapol on North street, and early the next evening the white face of tha samo woman appeared at the door. Billy was with her. They entered together and passed to a beat through the staring crowd.

It was a Promise Meeting. The opening exercises over, the promises were given in rapid succession there being usually some noticeable relation between the promise quoted and the personal experience of each speaker. Said one—- " Him that comoth to me I will in no wise cast out" Said another—"As many as received him to them gave ho power to heoomo sons of God, oven to thorn that believe on his name, I have been to the Island once." And another. " Ablo to euvo to the uttermost—this is my testimony—to the uttermost. I have been to the Island twice." At the word " uttermost," the woman had Kturted to her feet. " Does the Bible say that ?" She stood trembling, with a pale, earnest face.

■ Yes, the Bible says that," answered the chaplain. " What 1 want is something to save me. eliaplain. I eannot nave myself; I have the power." " We have all lost that po.ver," answered the chaplain. '• If you had the power to save yourself, you wouid not need a Saviour." •

■■ That's the word. Chaplain—a Saviour. I have heard it BO many times before, but I never thought what it DMfUlt until now. lam so tempted—l want a Saviour. Will you pray for me <" " I will pray for you," said a brokenlauking woman. Christ has been merciful to me, and I—l have been to the Island three times."

The dark period of that womans' life had passed. She found a Power outside of herself to help. She began to wear a face in whicli one might read the new life in her heart, and she used to refer to her former life with tears, and especially to that night when she made the resolution " to go out into the dark."

There ia a point of vice that one cannot pass without beiug maiked as a victim of death, though one may live long beyond it. Reformation at death's door may prolong life for a time; it may prevent the seeds of destruction from immediately producing their certain fruit, but it will not always prevent a breaking down of the physical power as the consequence of long-practised sin. The woman had gone too far. She must havo died very soon had sho continued her saloon-haunting life ; as it was, consumption began to develop itself in about a year, and as usual in eases like this, the "progress of the disease was rapid. One day the chaplain found her dying. " I am going, Chaplin, but I am not going out into the dark. " When I sat under the bridge, Chaplin, and heard the steps going oft' into the night, 1 thought some go over the bridge into the light—over tho bridge iu the morning, into the light. " Take my boy, Chaplin, I am going over tho bridge into the light. That's the way it all seems to me—in a vision like. " Sing, Chaplin : sing of ray Saviour who is ablo to save to the uttermost. I feel as though 1 should soon go over the bridge into the light.'' And the chaplain sang —" I will sing of my Redeemer " —and while he was singing the North street mother went over the bridge into the light.